Storm wraiths cry, the night creeps in; Borders between worlds grow thin. Light of the sun shines soft and weak, Thoughts drift lost in grey clouds bleak. Bereft of scent, air crisp and sharp; Melodies trickle from heathen harp. A cloak of silence heals weary lands...
Orange leaves are falling, Colder winds are calling. Dreary, wet and bleak, Yet wondrous colours Kiss my cheek. Yellow, red and crumbling fire Herald ho! the antlered Sire. He shall put the world to sleep, And milky sunlight in his keep. Whispering chatter in the air...
(N)Euer Senf – mittelscharf, wenn’s geht